


Dancing About Architecture

by beetle



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Episode s1e04: The Naked Time, F/F, Gen, Genderswap, Star Trek: XI - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:23:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for book_addict43's prompt: "communicating in real words is difficult. So is communicating in the written word. Go figure."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing About Architecture

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Genderswap of more than one crew-member, mentions of minor character death, mentions of violence. Spoilers for TOS S1, Ep4 "The Naked Time." Also, please note that wherever “Mr.” is used, it is on purpose and part of the 'verse.

**Philip Glass: Koyaanisqatsi**

 

“So, what kinda training?”  
  
  
Hikaru descends from the place of absolute-fucking-zen she's only ever in before fencing matches. And now, she supposes with mild amusement, before away missions.  
  
  
In any case, she finds herself looking over at the blonde cadet who'd stowed away on the Enterprise, and who's now joining Hikaru and Chief Engineer Olson on an away mission that's likely to kill at least two of them.  
  
  
Kirk is the cadet's name, and she looks like something out of old-fashioned manga: tall, lean, with disproportionately big tits. Wild blonde hair that's both much shorter, and much more fashionable than Hikaru's frames a pointy, pouty, ridiculously pretty face, dominated by cartoon-huge blue eyes.  
  
  
Hikaru's felt those curious eyes on her more than once since Pike gave them their marching orders, and now, she meets them calmly as they strap into their seats. “Beg pardon?”  
  
  
“Your training, Mr. Sulu—you said you have combat training?” Smoky voice, vaguely girlish, but for the hints of blood-on-steel and near reckless strength in it; Hiakru's almost tempted to blush. She doesn't, of course, but makes note of the sensation, and one of the few people to inspire it. “What in?”  
  
  
“Oh. Fencing,” Hikaru says, grinning when that holo-star smile slips a little in dismay and alarm. But the cadet--the  _Acting Commander_ \--is far too pretty to leave hanging for long. “And Shotokan. And Capoeira. And Dambe. And Wu Shu Kwan. And Muay Thai--”  
  
  
Hikaru's long litany of martial arts proficiency is cut off by Acting Commander Kirk's full lips on her own--brief, but electrifying. She tastes like stomach acid and raspberry lip gloss, medicine and polymer. It's gross and hot and unique and Hikaru quite suddenly wants  _more_. But Kirk pulls away, breathing hard, eyes sparkling with consideration.  
  
  
Finally, she licks her lips. “When this little cake-walk is over, you're taking me back to your quarters, Lieutenant, and that's an order.”  
  
  
“Aye, sir.” Hikaru's smile is slow and calm. She has no doubts that she can keep up with Kirk, and clearly Kirk has no doubts, either, judging by the tiny half-smirk on her profile.  
  
  
Still smiling, Hikaru faces forward.  
  
  
“Romulan  _arse_ ,” Lieutenant Olson mutters to no one in particular and grinning at the same. Hikaru rolls her eyes and can sense Kirk smirking as the shuttle lifts off smoothly, and banks right once it clears the bay doors, clean and efficient.  
  
  
It's times like these that she's glad her captain came up through the ranks at the helm of a ship.  
  
  


**QoTSA: The Lost Art of Keeping A Secret**

  
  
After yet another memorial service, Hikaru and Chekova say their good-byes—till tomorrow's memorial, anyway—to crew and friends, and make their way back to the dorms.  
  
  
They don't speak or look at each other. Chekova's hand is both light and clutching on Hikaru's arm. By the time they get to the dorms, their hands are linked. Chekova's is long and thin, ice-cold even on such a warm evening.  
  
  
They move silently through the lobby, past the lift, and to the stairs, barely able to stay abreast up the three flights but managing despite a narrow stairway. Hikaru sneaks glances at Chekova's pale profile—strong features that, were they to grow sharper, would be too severe to be pretty; features which are made gentler by thick, soft curls—that tell her nothing, other than Chekova needs to eat and sleep more, and worry less.  
  
  
She is, after all, only seventeen. Too young to carry the weight of the galaxy on her slim, narrow shoulders.  
  
  
 _And yet, she has,_  Hikaru thinks, which only enforces how unfair it was that Chekova's first mission required her to literally come up with a plan to save the galaxy. And what did it get her? _Lieutenant, second grade, and more to worry about and learn, just as she got used to being an ensign. Starfleet's idea of a reward is massively fucked, six ways to Sunday._  
  
  
So thinks a newly and uncomfortably promoted Lieutenant, first grade Sulu.  
  
  
Chekova's room is on the third floor. She lingers just outside the door across from hers, staring at it, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed.  
  
  
The former occupants of that room, Kait Lintas and T'Vonn died on the Farragut.  
  
  
“Kait was going to give me a makeover, and T'Vonn was teaching me to play Kal-toh,” Chekova says softly. Her voice is somewhat deeper than average, for a woman, but not as deep as Hikaru's. “Kait wanted to work in Astrometrics and T'Vonn wanted to be a research engineer . . . they were not finished with life. They had so much they wanted to do, and that monster peecked them off. Just wiped them off the face of the galaxy as if they did not ewen matt--”  
  
  
“C'mon, kiddo, you should get some rest,” Hikaru murmurs. Chekova looks at her with solemn eyes the color of a winter sky. Her curly light brown hair is held back by a simple band, and she looks naked and lifeless without curls tumbling in her face. Curls Hikaru's always wanting to brush back.  
  
  
“I do not know vhy I bother to sleep, anymore,” Chekova says flatly, slipping past Hikaru to let them into her dim, quiet, stuffy room. Her roommate is gone. Not dead, but badly wounded and still in the medical complex. Likely to be there for the foreseeable future, even if she ever wakes up. “Vhen I dream, I am back on the Enterprise, at the Narada's ewent horizon. Only we do not make it away in time. Is worse than no sleep at all.”  
  
  
To that, there's nothing to say. No comfort to offer but the presence of another body. That's all Sulu's ever had to offer, though the comfort she offers someone like, say, Kirk, is different than what she offers someone like  _this_  poor kid.  
  
  
When Chekova stops drifting around her room absently--a tall, pale, wraith-like girl in reds that wash her out, even in the dim room—and starts to undress, Hikaru averts her eyes, then turns to face the door. In seconds, the whoosh of fabric stops, and Chekova approaches Hikaru on near-silent feet. Gentle hands light uncertainly on her shoulders, and travel up the tense column of her neck, to her hairline, where further progress is halted by the thick, long braid Hikaru always wears coiled at her nape. Reluctantly, those hands then slide down her arms to take her own, and squeeze them gently.  
  
  
“You should wear your hair loose, sometimes.”  
  
  
“You sound like my mother.”  
  
  
“Hmm . . . your mother must be a wery wise woman.”  
  
  
“She thinks so, at any rate.” Hikaru wants more than anything to squeeze back, but she doesn't. Is too confused and tired to really be proactive in any direction. “Chekova, what--”  
  
  
“Stay with me, Hikaru.  _Please_.” Trembling, choked up voice, and those cold hands squeeze and squeeze, as if demanding blood from a stone. Chekova's cheek brushes Hikaru's shoulder, but doesn't quite settle. “Please, stay.”  
  
  
Hikaru swallows. Tries not to hear that shaky, strange note in Chekova's already trembly voice. “Till you fall asleep?”  
  
  
One final squeeze then Chekova's hands and cheek are gone. Those same soft footsteps pad over to her bed and she sits, sighing softly. When Hikaru turns around, heart beating wildly for no reason, it's to see a lump hidden under a large blue quilt. Folded neatly on the chair next to the bed are Chekova's skirt, jacket, shirt, slip, and underwear.  
  
  
“You do not have to stay. I will probably see you at the memorial serwice tomorrow,” she says, her voice strange and muffled by fabric. “Lights at five percent. Good ewening, Hikaru.”  
  
  
“Chekova--Polina . . . are you okay. . . ?” Stupid question to ask, now of all times, and right after the tenth memorial service they've both attended in the seven days since returning to Earth. But Hikaru has to ask. Chekova's sort of like the crew mascot. Everyone's kid sister; they'd all do anything for her. “Are you--”  
  
  
“I am fine,” the lump under the covers insists firmly. “ _Good ewening_ , Hikaru.”  
  
  
There's really nothing to do after that but leave. And anyway, Kirk's been getting all weird and demanding lately. Not in a professional way, but in a very personal, let's-jump-Hikaru-the-moment-she-steps-into-the-room way.  
  
  
It's not remotely unpleasant, but it  _is_  worrying. Or should be according to her older brother, who usually severs all ties once a girl starts expecting him to spend most evenings with her.  
  
  
A prudent philosophy, perhaps, if not overly kind. But then, Hikaru's certain Etsuo's never had a woman like  _Kirk_  demanding his . . . attention. And Kirk isn't needy, per say, but Hikaru always knows what Kirk needs. Can always give it to her, be it sex, simple comradeship, or a silent, neutral presence. Kirk is . . . easy. Doesn't confuse the hell out of Hikaru, the way most women (and girl like Chekova) tend to.  
  
  
And second guessing either herself or others has never gotten Hikaru anywhere she wanted to be.  
  
  
That in mind, she takes one last look at the blue lump—which may or may not be shaking—and does as she's been told.  
  
  


**Tool: Lateralus**

  
  
Within three months of leaving space-dock, Enterprise has found its own comfortable routine; even and maybe especially in dire, life-or-death situations, of which there've been . . . a few, with Kirk running the shift.  
  
  
It's after one of these near-miss kerfuffles that, when Hikaru's shift finally ends, by the time she gets to the captain's quarters, Kirk's already in bed, naked and holding the hugest dildo Hikaru's ever seen outside of a novelty shop.  
  
  
It's poised to breach and clearly about to go in at ramming speed. “Starting without me, Cap'n?”  
  
  
Kirk smirks and attempts to twirl the damn thing like it's the world's most disturbing baton. “Maybe. But I wouldn't dream of  _finishing_  without you. Get naked and get in here.”  
  
  
“Aye, sir.”  
  
  
Kirk rolls her eyes, but after that, they stay glued to Hikaru, who makes a low-key show of skinning off her pants and boxer briefs. The shirts she yanks off and tosses over her shoulder. The sports bra gets sling-shotted at Kirk's head. It's good for a squawk and flap, but she still doesn't drop the novelty dildo.  
  
  
“Even  _you_  can't defy the laws of physics. That is  _not_  gonna fit in you, Jenn.” Hikaru saunters to the bed under that keen, manga-eyed gaze and kneels, letting Kirk's free hand map her slowly and appreciatively, lingering at lips and nipples, in turn. “It'd be like pushing a sequoia through a cat-door. Ain't gonna happen.”  
  
  
“Maybe not, but we could have some fun trying.” She pulls Hikaru onto her for a long  _hello, soldier_  of a kiss. “Hmm, maybe we could even try fitting it in  _you_.”  
  
  
“Nuh-uh. I don't do cocks—real or fabricated. And certainly not when they're the size of a phase cannon. Is your wrist showing signs of strain?”  
  
  
“Haha. Pretty please? With strawberry-flavored lube on it?” Kirk does that thing with the manga-eyes and the pouting, suddenly looking as if a strong breeze would shatter her. Hikaru thinks it's called  _simpering_ , but freshman English is ten years behind her.  
  
  
After grinding her body down into Kirk's  _hard_ , Hikaru sits up and grabs the damned thing. Kirk lets her, grinning. Her fingers wander to her own nipples, picking up where she'd left off on Hikaru. “Christ, it's the Moby Dick of faux dicks—I have a quarter-staff that's shorter and a car that's narrower. Where'd you even get this?”  
  
  
“That would be telling. Just lube it up  _a lot_ , insert the tapered end  _here_.” Kirk spreads her legs just enough for Hikaru to a brief, but tantalizing eyeful. “Repeat the last step as needed. I've done, or had it done a billion times, with fake and actual cocks.”  
  
  
Hikaru quirks an eyebrow, and tosses the sequoia at Kirk, who catches it easily this time. Hikaru slides down till her legs are hanging out over the floor and she's at eye-level with the cat-door in question. “Cocks  _that size_?”  
  
  
“Well . . . don't tell anyone this, H, but--this one time, when Bones and I got really drunk after a memorial service--” Kirk's words are replaced by gasps as Hikaru applies her tongue much less subtly, interspersing slow, feather-light teases with slow, rasping lick,  
  
  
But no doubt Kirk's still managing to make the big-fish hands about McCoy's dick.  
  
  
“I n-nearly shit his bed when I saw how h-hung he was. S-seriously intimidating. I feared for my life. And more importantly my j-junk-- _ow_ , easy there, teeth-zilla, I plan on using that in the future!”  
  
  
Hikaru sighs and hides her face against Kirk's thigh for a moment. “Speaking of your junk, if you want me to keep eating you out, can you randomly babble about something other than McCoy and how big he is?”  
  
  
Kirk's voice is as sweet as it is sly. “Jealous?”  
  
  
After a few moments of careful non-thinking, Hikaru gets up, looking for her clothes. The first thing she spots is her pants, so she gets up and goes for them. Nearby is her shirt, underwear, and sports bra.  
  
  
She and Kirk aren't serious—never will be, but still. . . .  
  
  
That doesn't mean Hikaru wants the down-and-dirty details of what she did with  _McCoy_  of all people. The casual ease of what they have apparently can't bear up under this kind of . . . assault. It's this that bothers Hikaru, rather than the fact that Kirk's probably had every humanoid life-form under every sun.  
  
  
“Hey-hey-hey, where're you going?”  
  
  
When Hikaru looks back, Kirk seems just as calm and self-satisfied as always, but she's sitting up and swinging her legs over the side again. She's smiling, but her eyes are measuring Hikaru as if she's suddenly become an unknown quantity.  
  
  
It's never easy bearing up under that gaze. How Nero did is beyond Hikaru—probably would be beyond her even if she cared. She turns away from Kirk and tries to sort out her pants; one leg is inside out, and she doesn't realize it till she's got the other leg in. “I'm going to my quarters, sir. See you at oh-eight-hundred.”  
  
  
“Oh, no, stay right where you are, Mr. Sulu. That's an order.” There's the pad of Kirk's rather flat feet and her long, toned arms drape over Hikaru's neck. Kirk's five inches taller, an even six feet. Chekova's only three inches taller than Hikaru—which is a weird thing to notice at a time like this, but notice it Hikaru does.  
  
  
Then forgets it entirely when Kirk's hands cup her breasts and squeeze. Hikaru lets a few tense moments go by, then leans her head back against Kir's shoulder, and gets  _kissed_. It's a long, thorough, exploratory thing, as if Kirk's never kissed her before and is suddenly intent on doing it right.  
  
  
  
“I just thought you might wanna try it. We don't have to,” she whispers, when oxygen becomes a problem that is quickly solved. One thumb and index finger are pinching Hikaru's right nipple far harder than even Kirk likes. Which means it's just about right for Hikaru, who moans.  
  
  
The other hand is lightly stroking Hikaru's abs in a way that means  _gonna let me in?_  
  
  
 _Yeah,_ , is Hikaru's answer when she takes Kirk's hand and pushes it lower.  
  
  
“Tongue, fingers, cock, it's all the same, in the end.” Kirk pauses and snorts. “And in the front.”  
  
  
“God, you talk too fucking much.”  
  
  
Hikaru can't see the smirk, but she can sense it. “You know, I do. But I'll let you spend  _all_  night shutting me up. Sound like a plan?” Then she's being yanked back toward the bed, toppled and straddled, in a move she taught Kirk not three weeks ago.  
  
  
Ten sets of those mischievous eyes twinkle at her and Hikaru groans, closing her own till the room stops spinning. But she doesn't resist when Kirk bends her knees and yanks off the pants; opens her up and keeps her that way.  
  
  
And keeps her that way some more.  
  
  
“What  _are_  you doing?”  
  
  
“Looking.” The word is two different exhales of air, one warm, the other cool. “Lookit you, all wet and twitchy.”  
  
  
And it's really quite hard to hold a train of thought when someone's staring into your vag like it holds the secrets of life, the universe, and everything. Never mind when they're also making blush-worthy observations, as Kirk tends to do. “Uh-huh. You're about five seconds from a heel to the eye, Captain.”  
  
  
“Bet if I took it real slow, I could. . . .” the rest of what Kirk says gets conveniently muffled, pun most definitely intended. But Hikaru's learned to speak sex-ese, thanks to months as Kirk's sex-toy.  
  
  
“ _No_ , you cannot and will not  _ever_  get your whole fist in me. And before you ask about the Moby Dick again, no to that, too!" Hikaru pants and gasps, trying not to buck and flail even as she tries to come, muscles contracting around Kirk's fingers. These objectives get harder and easier, respectively, when Kirk's intersperses hot, rough licks with brief rills of cool air.  
  
  
Then both stop. “You're no fun.” No one does a better verbal pout than Kirk. And when Hikaru opens her eyes and looks down her body, she meets that twinkly gaze. The one that says  _yes, I_ am _awesome_. Kirk's free hand is petting Hikaru's abs lazily.  
  
  
“I'm no fun. Right." Hikaru laughs and licks her lips. They're sweat-salty and swollen from biting. She reclines as haughtily as possible and closes her eyes. "That's why we spend so much time fuck—oh, hell, yeah."  
  
  
Kirk may as well be fisting her. That's four fingers, and if Hikaru's body cooperates any more, there'll be a thumb, shortly. The wonderful-verging-on-painful pressure and fullness is too good to object to, or to start throwing around safe-words or attitude.  
  
  
"Yeah . . . you like that?" Four fingers is as far as they've ever gone--as far as Hikaru would let them go. Now. . . .  
  
  
"Stop again, and I'll  _kill_  you. Twice.”  
  
  
More cool rills of air has every hair on Hikaru's body standing on end and she can't control her body anymore. Is writhing and making embarrassingly needy sounds as Kirk's hand moves slowly in and out. "Guess that means I'll live to fight another day.”  
  
  
“Dude, shut--” just then, Kirk attempts to add her thumb to the other four-fingers, and the friction is an annoying tickle. Then an insistent burning stretch that  _hurts_. Hurts like the first time they tried this with just four fingers. Hurst like dying and being reborn, and Hikaru knows that before long, she'll be looking back on this moment with bemusement as Kirk fists her, too intent on what she's doing for  _I told you so_ s.  
  
  
Gasping, Hikaru squinches her eyes tight-shut, arches off the bed--off Kirk's hand even--and comes.  
  
  


**Duran Duran: Ordinary World**

  
  
Hikaru spots Chekova in the commissary—the first time she's done more than glimpse her friend since the shift-change seven weeks ago--and heads for her table.  
  
  
During the long, painful limp back to Earth after destroying the Narada, Hikaru and Chekova had formed a certain closeness—not quite a bond. They'd eaten together, even slept in the same bed, some nights, when Chekova couldn't sleep, or Kirk was too dead tired to fuck.  
  
  
But after Earth . . . after the memorials . . . Chekova's become withdrawn over the past six months. She still smiles and laughs. Still has a way of brightening any room Hikaru's in. But there's something . . . different, now. She seems colder, more reserved. She seems older and sadder in a way neither time, nor Hikaru, can mend.  
  
  
She's grown up, fast and ruthless. Without being shown the mercy of privacy and personal space.  
  
  
The withered tendrils of their friendship is really a widening rift that Hikaru has no idea how to close or bridge, but that doesn't mean she'll ever give up trying. So she steels herself, marches up to Chekova's table, and stands there, waiting to be acknowledged.  
  
  
She isn't. For nearly two minutes. And Chekova has to know that  _someone_  is standing behind her.  
  
  
“Wow, I, uh, guess I'm glad I got the soup, instead of the sandwich.” HIkaru's lame attempt at humor falls flat. Chekova freezes, but doesn't look up at her. One fine-boned hand stirs tepid-looking soup, and the shoulder-length curtain of loose, touchable curls doesn't shift.  
  
  
“The soup is adeqvate. I am simply not as hungry as I thought.”  
  
  
 _Strike one!_  “Okay . . . uh . . . I was actually kidding about the soup. I got a sandwich, and . . . if you want, I'll split it with you.”  
  
  
A bored, annoyed sigh, and although Chekova doesn't count as one, not really, Hikaru's not used to that reaction from women. “I am perfectly capable of acqviring a sandwich of my own, Mr. Sulu, should I want one. Thank you.”  
  
  
 _Strike two!_  And Chekova's standing up with her tray, turning just enough to pin Hikaru with an unreadable blue gaze.  
  
  
“Ooh-kay, then. Um.” Hikaru's also not used to stammering just because a woman's giving her an expectant look, and she has no idea what said woman expects. “Maybe later we could go bowl--”  
  
  
“Oh, leave me  _be_ , Hikaru!” Chekova nearly sloshes soup onto her uniform as she tries to get past Hikaru, who blocks her easily. “You and your buddy-buddy silliness, and bonding actiwities! I have had enough! Go away!”  
  
  
Well. It couldn't be said any plainer than that. There's no mending a friendship when one of the friends isn't interested. “Right. Enjoy the rest of your lunch. I'll see ya around.”  
  
  
Feeling strangely numb, Hikaru about faces and makes for the door, aware of the eyes darting back and forth between her and Chekova. She dumps her sandwich in the reclamator halfway to the door, thinking her lunch break'd be better spent with a punching bag. Or fucking Kirk six ways to useless. . . .  
  
  
“Wait!”  
  
  
Hikaru stops, sacrifices her pride, and looks back. Chekova's face is too pale, even for her—though there are hectic red spots high on her cheekbones. She seems too thin, too tired, too jumpy. But when she crosses the room to stop two feet from Hikaru, she seems steady enough. Maybe she needs to see Dr. McCoy—the man may be kind of an asshole, but he's without a doubt the best doctor serving in Starfleet.  
  
  
If nothing else, probably more than anything, Chekova looks like she needs a few days leave. Or maybe a few weeks. Or--  
  
  
Hikaru shakes her head ruefully. She's nobody's mother, especially Chekova's.  
  
  
“Look, I get that you're angry at me, but I don't get why. What did I do?” That stone-faced look wavers as Chekova steps a bit closer. Hikaru presses her advantage. “I wanna make it right, but I can't if you won't tell me what went wrong.  _You're_  the genius, remember? I'm the idiot fly-boy.”  
  
  
Chekova smiles for a moment, then sighs, closing her eyes. “I—you wouldn't understand--”  
  
  
“Try me.”  
  
  
A small, bitter laugh that's far too old to be coming from Chekova. “Ai, Hikaru. Sometimes I want to shake you until your teeth rattle. Maybe even till your eyes open.”  _Chekova_ 's eyes open, and she looks sad, but not angry. So help her, Hikaru thinks she preferred the anger. Sadness looks too much like defeat, and that's a look that doesn't belong on Chekova's face. “Never mind. I should not have said anything. Good day.”  
  
  
“Chekova--” Hikaru catches her arm, Chekova freezes. Meets her gaze with one that's both excited and fearful, and all of a sudden . . . Hikaru doesn't know what to say again.  
  
  
Chekova looks away with a smile as rueful as her laugh had been. She seems disappointed, and frees her arm without much fight from Hikaru. “I must go. I must get ready for my date.”  
  
  
By the time  _that'_ s trickled through, Chekova's gone, and Hikaru's holding a tepid bowl of soup in the middle of the Mess.  
  
  
 _Strike three--new batter._  
  


**Good Charlotte: I Don't Wanna Be In Love (Dance Floor Anthem)**

  
  
“. . . and then Kev was, like,  _oh, shit! It's got my eyebrow! Get it off! Get it off!_ ”  
  
  
Tormalen's quiet, self-deprecating chuckle joins Chekova's lovely little tinkle of a giggle, and Hikaru's face screws into a scowl McCoy would envy. At least till he got a good scan of Hikaru's blood pressure, that is.  
  
  
Making a course correction Chekova's  _clearly_  too distracted to make, herself, Hikaru sighs loudly, hoping the lovebirds'll take the hint and stick to their proper stations. And it might have worked, had Spock had the Bridge. Although, if Spock'd had the Bridge, Tormalen would be back over by Hannity, where he belongs, and Hikaru wouldn't be about to lose her breakfast, lunch, and last night's dinner.  
  
  
But Kirk has the Bridge, and is currently in her ready room. Hannity's got seniority over Hikaru _and_  Tormalen, but she can't stand Tormalen. She's not about to order him back to his station a second earlier than necessarily.  
  
  
“It all sounds so exciting—I wish the Keptin would let me go on more avay missions. . . .” Chekova sighs, and Hikaru has to fight an extremely powerful need to look over and see if she's got  _that_  expression on her face. The dreamy one with that tiny, wistful little smile on her pretty, pink mouth, eyes wide as wonder and ringed by lashes a shade darker than her hair.  
  
  
“. . . kinda glad you're not, I mean . . . just the thought of you in danger—gettin' chomped on by some carnivorous lemur makes me feel all queasy, Pol.”  
  
  
“Do not be seelly, Joey, I--”  
  
  
“Mr. Sulu.”  
  
  
Hikaru whips her head up, startled. Kirk is standing over her, concerned cartoon-eyes looming over a big smirk and even bigger tits.  
  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
  
Kirk's smirk turns wry, and she saunters away, back toward her ready room. Her ass alone is worthy of at least ten different poetry forms, though only limericks come immediately to Hikaru's mind. “My ready room. Triple-time.”  
  
  
Hikaru scowls for a moment . . . then shakes her head as she realizes she's getting pissed at Kirk for tearing her away from growing an ulcer to have wild, ready-room sex.  
  
  
 _This is how crazy three months of worrying about Chekova's love-life is making me. I have entirely new respect for my older brother,_  Hikaru stands up at about the same time as Tormalen stops leaning on Chekova's console. He's smiling down at her like a man in love and Chekova's . . . well, Hikaru can't see her face. Sadly, it's a state she's grown used to.  
  
  
 _Whatever. Can't leave Kirk waiting._  
  
  
Though the prospect of getting laid lifts her spirits a little, Hikaru can't help glancing back at the helm. And when she does Chekova's staring back at her with a hurt, shocked frown.  
  
  


**The Used: All That I've Got**

  
  
It's pure luck of the kind Hikaru Sulu never has when Joe Tormalen and his partner in crime, Kevin Riley, walk into the mostly empty Mess in the middle of gamma shift, too busy bullshitting with each other to take any real notice of where they sit, and who's around them.  
  
  
Once they have their trays, they sit exactly where she predicted—which is in a diagonal, straight line-of-sight to Hikaru--easy laughter shared between them like a friendship cup. Sulu slouches down in her booth a little, and edges casually around, so they can't see her profile anymore.  
  
  
“--tellin' ya, buddy, you oughta grow a pair, and ask out that Nurse Chapel.”  
  
  
“Ah, have you  _seen_  him? It'd take more than  _one_  pair, Joey. It'd take more pairs than even Kirk's got.” He sounds like he's frowning. Odd, since once upon a time, Riley was always smiling and Tormalen was always distracted and unhappy. Now that Hikaru's noticed it, the reverse is unnerving. “Chris Chapel's not my type. He's warm, witty and  _sane_. Not to mention I make one wrong move, and McCoy'll have my balls in a specimen jar. Shame, though. Chris's easily the hottest guy on the ship. After you, that is.”  
  
  
“Of course—goes without saying.” Sounds of cutlery hitting plates or bowls. “Look, I don't mean to be a buttinsky, but, well, I feel bad, I mean, I've got Pol, and you're at loose ends.”  
  
  
“Mary and Joseph, you sound like my mother, and all my sisters! Don't you worry about my love-life, Joey-me-lad. A true Irishman is never lonely for long. Anyway since when does the great, interplanetary playboy lecture  _me_  about settlin' down? What happened to love-em-and-leave-em Joe?”  
  
  
 _Yes, what, indeed?_  Hikaru thinks, clutching her spork and pushing at the neck hard enough that it bends, just slightly.  
  
  
“He grew up, that's what happened. I tell ya, Kev, if you could find a guy half as wonderful as Pol, you'd understand. I've never known anyone like her, she's just . . . incredible.” Tormalen trails off in moony little sigh. “She's smart, beautiful, funny, so  _sweet_  . . . damn, she makes me feel like I'm ten feet tall. Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I'll watch her sleep till she opens her eyes. And when she sees me, she smiles, and says  _good morning, Joey_ , in this sleepy little voice and kisses me. . . .”  
  
  
All of which goes down about as well as a poison pellet, but Hikaru swallows it. Swallows it, and goes back for more.  
  
  
“Huh, that sounds . . . really creepy. You're stalking your own girlfriend while she sleeps. This is sounding less like love, and more like obsession.”  
  
  
“I'm not . . . stalking, I'm appreciating. It's like I can't get enough of her—the way she looks, the way she smells, the way she talks. God, that  _accent_ \--I just about die when she says  _wessel_  . . . I've never felt this way about anyone.”  
  
  
 _Neither have I,_  Hikaru realizes, and the spork gains an acute curve it hadn't had seconds ago.  
  
  
Just last shift, Chekova had noted that a Cardassian skirmisher they'd exchanged cautious how-dos with'd had  _wery impressive maneuwerability, ewen for a wessel of its class._  And Hikaru had bitten back a strange sigh that she hadn't understood, then.  
  
  
But she thinks she's starting to understand, now. And she wishes she didn't.  
  
  
“Well, I'm happy for ya, Joey.”  
  
  
“You sure sound happy.”  
  
  
“Ah, I am. Really. I'm just blue, lately. Homesick, or something.”  
  
  
“Homesick? You? You're about as sentimental as a Vulcan. And you said you hated Akron.”  
  
  
“Well. I do. But even Akron's the bees knees, in hindsight.” They both laugh, but Riley's sounds fake. “Anyways, I got a hot date tomorrow with a guy in engineering. How's that for getting back on the horse—and no cracks about horsey-faced engineers, wiseass.”  
  
  
Tormalen chuckles, low and easy. “Would I stoop so low? You wound me. Deeply. Besides, engineers on the Enterprise are squirrelly and little. Hey, you're not going out with that guy with the scumbag mustache that drools every time you pass him in the corridor? He's jailbait!”  
  
  
“You're one to talk, pervert! You've got twelve years on yours. I've only got five on Lieutenant Clegg. And he's not the engineer I'm talking about.”  
  
For a moment, Hikaru wonders if Scotty's the engineer Riley's talking about. Then shakes her head for being silly. Gaila might literally rearrange Riley's teeth if he so much as glanced in Scotty's direction. Not that Scotty even seems to notice she's alive, except as one of his best engineers and a dab hand at anything she takes up.  
  
  
 _God, he's so blind,_  Hikaru thinks, not without irony. Makes a mental note to bring up the mind-destroying hotness of Lieutenant Gaila the next time she, Scotty, and Kirk go drinking on leave. If anyone deserves the love and attention of the third most beautiful woman on ship, it's Scotty.  
  
  
“Well?” Tormalen's demanding. “Cut the foreplay and just tell me who it is! I'm not gonna let just any tube-crawler get his micro-dick anywhere near my precious Kevvie-poo's questionable virtue.”  
  
  
“Keep gettin' my Irish up, Tormalen, and you'll see stars that aren't on any chart your little girlfriend could make.”  
  
  
Riley takes a bit more ribbing but Hikaru's already tuned out. Is glaring into her tepid bowl of spaghetti and room temperature bowl of pudding with something like genuine hatred.  
  
  
She  _loves_  pudding. Loves it so much that every time she sees it, she wants it all for herself. Though sometimes, there's someone who wants it a little more. Maybe a lot more. Needs it more, loves it more, will dare more to have it, and savor that sweet, wholesome taste--  
  
  
Well, Hikaru's no good at metaphors. Joe Tormalen loves Chekova. Really  _loves_  her. Hikaru doesn't need to hear anymore to be certain. It's in his voice, in the way he sits or stands, calmly, like a man who's life has fallen perfectly into place.  
  
  
Not to mention Chekova can't stop grinning, lately. So much so, that she no longer looks at Hikaru like the sight of her causes her pain. Now, she  _smiles_  at Hikaru, and even engages her in small talk, while looking distracted and undentably cheerful.  
  
  
Hikaru's suspected for a few weeks, but this . . . was the confirmation she needed. Chekova and Tormalen are in love with each other. Not only that, but that initial love-high is the only reason Chekova's stopped treating Hikaru like she's something that slimed its way out of a petrie dish.  
  
  
Somewhere deep down, someplace that Hikaru hadn't acknowledged till a few minutes ago, she's hoped that maybe. . . .  
  
  
“Whoa, whoa! Release the spork and back away from the pudding!”  
  
  
Hikaru blinks, and though she's startled, she's a good soldier and follows her Captain's orders unquestioningly. Kirk crowds into the booth with her, grinning and bright-eyed. Her gaze is hot and everywhere on Hikaru's body like a sex floodlight. “My God, you're fucking hot when you're angry, and you're  _so_  the person I wanna see . . .  _naked_.” She laughs, low and sexy, and darts in to lick Hikaru's right ear lobe. “I hate double shifts, but at least there's you, at the end of 'em. C'mon, Butch, let's get the fuck outta here. I need you to rip my uniform off and use it to tie me to my bed.”  
  
  
“You're completely shameless,” Hikaru says, looking around the Mess. It's mostly empty, and the few people left—a couple of ensigns, a yeoman, a lieutenant but no Tormalen or Riley—aren't paying them any mind. Even if they were, it's a loosely kept secret that the Captain and helmsman are fucking. But Kirk doesn't play favorites professionally. Ever. And Hikaru wouldn't want her to.  
  
  
“C' _mon_ , baby,” Kirk murmurs, leaning closer and pulling Hikaru's hand under the table, under her skirt. . . .  
  
  
“You're not wearing panties,” Hikaru notes, even as she's wondering how long she's been sitting there, staring off into space, and feeling . . . nothing.  
  
  
“You say that as if you've never met me.” Kirk grins, crossing one leg over the other, and incidentally over Hikaru's hand. Her eyes seem to glow, and for a moment, just the barest instant, Hikaru thinks it's Chekov pressed up against her and keeping her, soft and wet against her trapped, questing fingers.  
  
  
Then the moment passes, and Kirk's eyes have that  _fuck me, now,_  look that, like Pavlov's dog, Hikaru is programmed to respond to and obey.  
  
  
She leans in till her nose brushes Kirk's ear—even her damn  _ears_  are pretty, unlike Hikaru's jug-handles—and blows lightly. Bites Kirk's earlobe gently (it drives her  _wild_ ) in between telling her how good she feels. Kirk makes a strange sound, and puts her hand on Hikaru's face, which she takes to mean  _stop_.  
  
  
When she does, Kirk turns to face her with flame-blue eyes that are far too serious and aware, too thoughtful, for what the two of them have been doing. Her thumb is making slow figure eights on Hikaru's cheek. “I think I'm falling in love with you.”  
  
  
“Love? This isn't your heart I'm touching, Jenn.” Hikaru presses her fingers hard against Kirk's clit and smirks at the wanton hiss that is her response. Not a small victory, to make Captain Kirk lose her cool in public. And it sure tastes better than the massive fail that Hikaru's personal life has become of late. “Want me to fuck you right here?”  
  
  
“As if I didn't get enough of a rep for sleeping with you on the Dee-Ell. There's a perfectly good bed in my—yiiy!” Kirk starts with a surprisingly mousy squeak. She uncrosses her legs and gives Hikaru free rein. Rein Hikaru takes hertime taking, serving Kirk's trademark smirk right back at her. Kirk laughs a little, breathless a gripping the edge of the table. “God, you're such a cunt.”  
  
  
“Takes one to know one, pretty lady.”  
  
  
Kirk huffs and starts to get up, but Hikaru prevents that by pushing two fingers inside her fast and hard, crooking them till she's got Kirk by the G-spot. “I'm sorry.” Hikaru kisses Kirk's cheek and Kirk makes a strangled gasping noise that probably attracts the attention of everyone in hearing distance. Which probably means everyone in the Mess.  
  
  
“I know you've been thinkin' about me all shift—you said as much.”  
  
  
“Maybe I'm . . . fuck . . . a liar.” Too-blue eyes gaze desperately up into her own, torn between dignity and getting off.  
  
  
“No maybe about it. But not when it comes to this.”  
  
  
Kirk closes her eyes and sighs, just as unhappily as Riley had. “Couldn't stop squirming in the chair,” Kirk finally acknowledges grudgingly with a snort of a laughter, slouching in the seat so Hikaru's fingers slide deeper. “I think Spock could tell I was horny. It's like he's got a sixth sense.”  
  
  
“Maybe he could smell it,” Hikaru muses, then wishes she hadn't. A wish shared by Kirk, which she voices quite waspishly, shoving Hikaru's hand away from her.  
  
  
“Swear to  _God_ , Lieutenant, if you ever say anything like that again, you'll be fucking  _yourself_  for the rest of this mission. Are we clear?”  
  
  
Sulu shivers under that bright, space-cold glare.  _This_  is the Kirk that gets her hot and gets her off, take-charge and commanding, not soft and malleable.  _Wound_ able. “As crystal, sir.”  
  
  
“My quarters, then.” Kirk stands up, straightening her uniform with hands that shakes ever-so slightly. Glancing back at Hikaru, her eyes are still hard and bright, but hot, now. “Did I  _stutter? Triple time_ , Lieutenant.”  
  
  
“Aye,  _sir_!”  
  
  


**Beck: Time Bomb**

  
  
Itchy, sweaty, dizzy and disoriented, Hikaru lays strapped to a biobed in Sickbay, trying to calm herself with meditation and steady breathing.  
  
  
To say it's not working is worse than understatement, it's mischaracterization.  
  
  
Not four beds over, lies an unconscious Kevin Riley, post-op for a gut stab that was meant for Hikaru. And the man responsible for the wound, dead by his own hand, lies on a slab in another room, held in stasis for further testing.  
  
  
Even as Hikaru knows she's ill, even as some small part of her mind is shrilling at her that it's more than kinda  _superbadfuckingwrong_  to be running down corridors, sans everything save sports bra and pants while feinting at all who cross her path with the heirloom rapier her father had given her for graduation . . . it'd felt so  _right_  at the time. Still does. Actions that even twelve hours ago would have been unthinkable have been done and they felt  _good_. Justified. Especially storming the Bridge to “rescue” her fair maiden.  
  
  
But for that niggling bit of conscience or sanity or what-the-fuck-ever, she's constantly reliving the way Chekova had felt in her arms: a tall slip of a girl who hadn't put up any fight, but had leaned into Hikaru's body like she'd been waiting to do so forever. And her hair had smelled so good, and her skin. . . .  
  
  
Hikaru groans low in her throat and wishes her hands were free, because they'd sure as hell be down her pants, and she'd be halfway to an orgasm like a freight train--  
  
  
“Do you know how long I have wanted you?”  
  
  
Strapped down as she is, heart racing with frustration and rage and  _need_ , she almost doesn't hear the soft voice at the door. Chekova is peering around the entryway, wide-eyed and hesitant. Before Hikaru can struggle as close to upright as the restraints will allow, Chekova is standing over her, porcelain pale and sweating; red-eyed, like she's been weeping.  
  
  
As odd as being grabbed by a shirtless, sword-wielding comrade must be, Chekova's no wilting flower. Why on Earth would she be crying? Why--  
  
  
 _That asshole. I'll kill him again. I'll act however I need to act to get them to let me go, then I'll drag his body out of stasis, and I_ will kill him again _. I'll--_  
  
  
But then Chekova's leaning over Hikaru, brushing sweat-damp bangs off her face. Her eyes seem even bigger and bluer than Kirk's, and the lashes that frame them are very dark. “I have wanted you since the very first time I saw you. You were strong and confident, golden and beautiful. You still are those things, to me.”  
  
  
Chekova's fingers are clammy, cool, and gentle, and Hikaru closes her eyes.  
  
  
“Feels good,” she murmurs, squeezing her eyes shut tight, but tears leak out anyway. “You should stop.”  
  
  
“No, I should not and I will not. Not ever.” Chekova words are puffs of air on Hikaru's lips, and she opens her eyes just in time to be kissed. It's nearly a minute before she can make herself turn away, and even then Chekova follows her, all sweetly dirty kisses and delicious sighs.  
  
  
But finally, finally Hikaru whips her head away decisively, though it hurts like a punch to the gut, and the room starts to spin. “ _No_ , I said.”  
  
  
“I do not care what you say—what you say is lies.” Clammy, not-so-cool-or-gentle hands turn Sulu's face till wide, wet eyes are glaring into her own. “Joe and I have been seeing each other for eight months. Three months ago, he told me he loved me. This morning, over breakfast, he got down on vone knee, took my hand, and proposed to me. I turned him down.” She laughs wearily, and straightens up, wiping her hands on the skirt of her uniform, then rubbing them together as if they're tacky with something. Or itchy. “When he asked me why, I told myself and him I did not know, but I knew. I said no because I love  _you_ , and that will never change. There is nothing Joe could ever do to make me love him they way I love you, Hikaru. Nothing. Having a relationship with him was unfair, and marrying him would have been a million times vorse. I would have built my life on lies, and spent the rest of it wishing he was, then hating him for not being  _you_.”  
  
  
Hikaru shakes her head. “Chekova, I can't--” then there's nothing to do but twist and twitch as Chekova leans over her and tries to undo her fly. “Wait-”  
  
  
“I am  _tired_  of waiting for you to admit how you feel. I  _know_  you want me, too.” Chekova's blank-eyed with certainty and even though Hikaru's saying no, her thrashing has slowed almost to a stop. Enough for Chekova to make short work of button and zipper. “After the Bridge, vhat you said—vhat you  _did_. . . I no longer have any doubts. So stop lying, and let me love you. Please.”  
  
  
Hikaru closes her eyes again, doesn't want to see the look of triumph on Chekova's face as she slides her hand past Hikaru's boxers. As Hikaru's legs ease slowly open. “Stop it, Lieutenant, and let me up.”  
  
  
Chekova snorts. “And that's what you do to awoid the issue. Pull rank on me. You are just trying to run avay, and if I let you up, you really will run away from me, like you always do.”  
  
  
In this strange mood, the only thing Hikaru can be sure of is that she won't be running away from Chekova. “I promise I won't.”  
  
  
“You are lying, like always--”  
  
  
“And you're doing something that's practically date rape.”  
  
  
“But--” that certainty wavers. “You  _want_  this, I know you do!”  
  
  
“I want lots of things, Polina, but not all of them are  _right_  things. Or good things, or the best things.” Chekova's fingers are feather-light and slow, slow, slow on her labia. It's torture. It's wonderful. “P-please don't make me ask you to stop again. I don't know if I could forgive you, if you do.”  
  
  
The fingers disappear, and by the time Hikaru's opened her eyes, Chekova's squeezed into the corner between the head of Riley's bio-bed and the wall. She's staring at Hikaru with huge, wounded eyes as she gnaws one one reddened knuckle.  
  
  
“People are not like math. I always mess up, and someone gets hurt. I am sorry,” she sighs. “I am so sorry. Is my fault Kevin is hurt, and Joe . . . my poor Joe. . . .” hiding her face in her hands, Chekova starts to weep. Hikaru's heart feels like it's being dunked in boric acid.  
  
  
“Fairest maiden.”  
  
  
Startled, Chekova looks up and blinks red, wet eyes like Hikaru's speaking some alien language. Then she wipes her face and looks away. “Do not make fun of me. Not after ewerything. I could not bear it.”  
  
  
“I'm not making fun, I'm being honest with you. For the first time since that night, after the memorial service, when you asked me to stay till you fell asleep. And I pretended I didn't know what you wanted because I wanted it, too, and it scared me how  _bad_  I wanted it. I knew I couldn't go back to just being friends if I had you like that, even just once. Because I . . . I love you,” Hikaru says, and for the first time the idea that her heart isn't her own anymore—hasn't been for over a year—fills her with something other than vague disquiet. It fills her with a joy so huge and bright, she thinks she might die if she can't express at least some of it. “I love you so much, I wish I was good with words, so I could tell you  _how much_  I love you. And make it pretty, like you deserve.”  
  
  
Chekova's mouth drops open, and in the silence that follows, Hikaru struggles against the restraints ruefully. “I really wanna put my arms around you, Polina. I have since . . . probably the first time I ever saw that sweet smile of yours slip. I wanna be the one who brings it back. Who makes it bigger and brighter than ever. I want--”  
  
  
But Chekova--Polina's--crossed the room in a flash, and is kissing her frantically, without coordination, laughing and crying. Her hands fumble at the restraints at shoulder level, then at waist level. In seconds that last eternities, they're gone, and Sulu is sitting up, rubbing sweaty, itchy arms, then scratching them, even as she and Polina still kiss each other.  
  
  
It's an endeavor Hikaru is more than suited and more than inclined to take over, so she does, grabbing Polina's thin arms and hauling her in for a hard, demanding kiss. She surrenders so prettily, so desperately, it's intoxicating.  
  
  
The next thing either of them knows, Hikaru is pulling Polina onto the biobed and straddling her. Their kisses are hit and miss, raining all over each other's faces. Polina's babbling in Russian--Hikaru doesn't know what she's saying. But it doesn't matter. She knows Polina's wriggling to get closer and feel more. That (unlike Kirk, and strangely something of a turn-on) she has no patience for foreplay, bashing their fingers as she tries to take and guide Hikaru's hand to where she needs it.  
  
  
“Wait--.” Hikaru's head is spinning, or maybe it's just Sickbay. There's something she's forgetting, something not quite right. . . .  
  
  
“ _No_. Fuck me now,” Polina murmurs on Hikaru's right eyebrow, and it's practically a demand. Followed by a soft, breathless plea: “Touch me. I need you to  _touch me_.”  
  
  
Her eyes are fever-bright and intense—still a little red, and . . . Hikaru complies sitting up briefly, only so she can shove the skirt of Polina's uniform up. Hikaru kisses the concave curve of stomach, the slightly prominent pelvis, and--is weirdly touched, charmed, and unsurprised by the white cotton panties she finds, trimmed with pale pink lace bows.  
  
  
They're so pretty, so very  _Polina_ , that it's a shame to rip them off.  
  
  
“Oh!” Polina gasps, jumping a little as her ruined underwear goes sailing across the Sickbay and Hikaru scoots down her body. Polina's next gasps are for another reason entirely, and involve her spreading her legs so wide that they hang off the bio-bed, her hands clenching in Hikaru's hair, pulling it the rest of the way out of its usual knot.  
  
  
For a little while, there's nothing but Polina's tiny, helpless mewls, and Hikaru's occasional hmming and moaning.  
  
  
Each tug on her hair is cause for a moan, and Hikaru's as lost and helpless as Polina. At least till her teeth close gently on Polina's clit, tonguing it hard and slow until Polina screams, high and long. It's the most beautiful sound Hikaru's ever heard, and she neither lets go nor stops, until Polina's having a sort of full-body orgasm that, from Hikaru's vantage point, could be confused with being electrocuted.  
  
  
When Polina finally goes limp and still but for the panting, she says something in Russian—Hikaru doesn't know what—before running her fingers gently across Hikaru's sweaty, itchy scalp.  
  
  
“I love you,” Hikaru says, and forget incomprehensible Russian,  _that_  is all she needs to know. All she  _does_  know before there's a cold pinch on her neck, a hiss, and the lights go out.  
  
  
A hoarse, murderous,  _you **bitch**! This is all  **your**  fault!_ follows her into oblivion.  
  
  


**Nirvana: Been A Son**

  
  
So whose face are you imagining on that wall, Lieutenant, Riley's or mine?”  
  
  
Hikaru doesn't even have to think that one over. Just spin kicks the wall again with a low, clipped  _kai_. Then punches the wall until Kirk's hands settle on her tense, sweaty shoulders. She stops, and for a few moments sags back into a Kirk-style massage.  
  
  
“So. Thanks to you, one of my Lieutenants—who's still recovering from being gut stabbed, by the way—is back in Sickbay having his front teeth regrown,” Kirk mentions, as if Hikaru might not have known. She steps away from the massage and sits on the narrow brig bunk. Stares at her bruised, slightly swollen hands even as Kirk stares at her.  
  
  
“If you're waiting for me to feel guilty, I'll be cooling my heels in here an awful long time.”  
  
  
“Two weeks.” There's a twinkle in Kirk's voice that means she's mildly amused. Hikaru's used to it, but still doesn't like it. “Maybe the peace and quiet'll do you good.”  
  
  
“Maybe it will.”  
  
  
Kirk stares at her for awhile longer, then sighs and sits next to her. She smells like some expensive perfume, as always. Hikaru's sure she, herself, smells like sweat, blood, and confinement.  
  
  
“There's nothing wrong with being in love with her, H. You could do a lot worse. Hell, ya already have,” she adds wryly. Cue that charming grin, no doubt.  
  
  
“Look, just because you don't have the spine to tell McCoy how you feel, don't project your drama onto me and Chekova. She and I are friends. That's all.”  
  
  
“Wait—what, ah, makes you think I have feelings for Bones?” Cue the shifty eyes, if Hikaru knows Kirk. And she does. Maybe not as well as McCoy, but still. . . .  
  
  
She grits her teeth, then forces herself to relax. There's really no reason to be tense, anyway. None at all. “Don't tell me if McCoy offered himself to you on a platter you wouldn't eat him up with a spoon.”  
  
  
“ _Bones_? Of course not! That's silly!” And cue that deep, sexy, rich laugh that's about as sincere as a used transport salesman. Kirk's real laugh is a silly, almost dainty little  _tee-hee-hee_ , interspersed with very unsexy guffaws. “We don't even have any, ah, chemistry, or whatever. Just because we had sex once, like,  _a year ago_ \--”  
  
  
Hikaru looks up, quirking her eyebrows. “Jenn, you named that goddamn novelty dildo _Leonard_!”  
  
  
“Only because it reminded me of his dick, not because I--” Kirk tugs on her hair. She's been growing it out, and it's nearly chin-length; but this is the first time Hikaru's ever seen her tug on it. Kirk doesn't  _do_  nervous, let alone nervous gestures. “God, you drive me fucking crazy, lately!”  
  
  
“Feeling's mutual.”  
  
  
Kirk tugs on her hair some more.  
  
  
“I'm not in love with Bones,” she mutters eventually, rubbing the back of her neck and crossing her ankles. Hikaru crosses her arms.  
  
  
“Well,  _I'm_  not in love with Chekova.”  
  
  
Kirk's real laugh makes a brief, sardonic appearance. “You know, you're . . . you're probably the _densest_  smart person I've  _ever_  met.”  
  
  
“Right backatcha, babe.”  _No,_  Hikaru is  _not_  offended.  
  
  
Kirk leans back against the wall, eyes raised to the ceiling like a martyr begging for strength and patience. Then she links their arms loosely and leans her head on Hikaru's sweaty shoulder. “Look, we can deal with my clearly unrequited feelings for a macho, violent, stubborn blockhead another time. Right now, brig-girl, it's your turn. You put a member of my crew in Sickbay because he made an admittedly below-the-belt crack about another member of my crew who's . . .  _just your friend_?”  
  
  
“He--” Hikaru glares at the dent she hasn't put in the opposite wall, and never will. Leans her head against Kirk's. “He . . . insinuated Chekova and I were the reason Joe killed himself.” More liked hurled bald accusations in the midst of a relatively crowded mess, not five days after the clusterfuck at PSI 2000. He'd shuffled in, still pale and rubbery about the legs—his second AWOL from the infirmary, and whomever was playing nursemaid had probably gotten the sharpest, worst side of McCoy's tongue—seen Chekov and Sulu about to sit down together, and started screaming at them.  
  
  
Oddly enough, that lunch-that-never-was had been the first time Hikaru and Chekova had dared to meet with each other since PSI 2000.  
  
  
“Well, he was wrong. Lashing out at the most convenient people, and wrong. A  _virus_  is the reason Joe killed himself. Lieutenant Riley  _will_  accept that, with or without the counseling available to every Starfleet officer aboard this ship . . . or he'll be reassigned.”  
  
  
Hikaru smiles a little. Kirk is badass, and badass is Hikaru's turn-on. Though she's recently discovered other equally powerful turn-ons, such as the damsel in distress. Hence her little vacation in Club Brig.   
  
  
“It's really not your fault. Or Chekova's,” Kirk adds, cupping Hikaru's cheek just like she did that day in the Mess. “This whole situation's nothing but a cartload of ifs. If Tormalen had kept his hazmat suit sealed. If he'd remembered to tell Bones that he hadn't. If he and Chekova had broken up a day later—or even a day sooner. If Tormalen hadn't pulled a knife on you. If Riley hadn't jumped between you two and gotten the worst of it--” here, Hikaru winces, and remembers that the man whose teeth she knocked down his throat is also the man who'd probably saved her life.  
  
  
“If only he had come to his senses  _before_  hurting his best friend and turning the knife on himself,” Hikaru whispers, closing her eyes to stop tears from falling. She sniffs. “Chekova's dealing with survivor's guilt, and guilt over . . . what happened between us while we had that damn virus. Maybe I shouldn't have been so . . . vehement in defending her, but God, the last thing she needed was—”  
  
  
“For someone she loves to get tossed into the brig over something stupid.” Cue the raised eyebrow that's normally a turn on. But Hikaru hasn't been turned on by anything since waking up, virus-free, four days ago. “And as romantic as it is to defend your fair maiden's honor, I think she'd much prefer it if you were in her arms, rather than the hoosegow.”  
  
  
“Damnit, Jenn, I  _don't_ \--it's not like that!”  
  
  
“Dude, we've all seen video footage that says otherwise, thanks to Riley.” Who'd somehow, after major surgery and having been hypo'd to the gills, had then woken up and managed to drug Hikaru, Chekova, and Nurse Chapel. Then he'd snuck his way down to engineering, took control of the ship, and used the ship-wide address system to air security footage of Hikaru and Chekova fucking. Not that many people were any shape to notice or care. Not even when the footage had switched to a still photo of Joe Tormalen in his graduation reds, grinning.  
  
  
Riley had still been singing “Danny Boy” in a strangely stirring voice, when Scotty and the others finally broke in.  
  
  
All very touching, Hikaru's heard, till he got it into his head to show them all the ultimate mercy by steering the ship into Psi 2000.  
  
  
“Wasn't a damned system he  _didn't_  get into, except the ones encrypted by Chekova. It may be he's wasted at the helm, with skills like that,” Kirk muses.  
  
  
Leave it to Kirk to always be thinking of ways to make Enterprise run more efficiently. Though Hikaru couldn't be happier to never look across the helm and see Riley again. In fact, Chekova's more than proved she's ready to be senior navigator—had proved that during the Narada Incident, even though Hikaru's not sure she could bear sitting next to her after . . . everything. Especially since--”She's only seventeen. I could never, in my right mind--”  
  
  
“H, she's almost nineteen. She's an adult. She can handle whatever stupid shit Riley says, and she can even handle the creepy, ninja-silent obsession of a woman who'd rather punch crew-mates and/or walls, than admit how she feels. Polina's an adult, and you're the only person who refuses to accept that.” Kirk sits up, and Hikaru has to look up to meet her eyes. After a good, long, hard stare, Kirk brushes Hikaru's hair off her face and smiles.  
  
  
“You're so . . . so fucking fearless, H. So stop settling, grow a pair, and go after what you want.”  
  
  
“I told you--” but it's no use talking around Jenn Kirk's tongue when she means to keep you from talking. It's only when Hikaru slides a hand under Kirk's short, short, suicidally short skirt (she's wearing panties today, more's the pity) that Kirk breaks away, breathing hard and looking resolute.  
  
  
“Don't come around anymore, okay?” There's nothing joking or humorous about her eyes, or the grim set of her mouth. She stands up, looking every inch The Captain, and Hikaru feels a strange pang inside. Faint, but there. And she knows what's coming next. “We can still be friends—we'd damn well better be--but the fucking part of our friendship is over.”  
  
  
“Because you think I'm in love with Chekova.”  
  
  
“ _Because_  whatever we had was comfortable; easy and hot.” Kirk shrugs and her lips twitch up a little, but her eyes don't match even that limp excuse for a smile. “It  _worked_ ; but only for as long as we didn't have the power to hurt each other, just . . . sting a little.”  
  
  
 _Since when do we have the power to hurt each other?_  Hikaru thinks, truly bewildered. Then she decides that maybe she doesn't want to know the answer. Maybe a year ago, but not now.  
  
  
When Hikaru doesn't say anything, simply averts her gaze to the barely detectable shimmer of forcefield, Kirk, sighs. “Well. There you go. We don't work anymore, Hikaru. Don't get me wrong, it was nice while it lasted. But if you ever wanna get any sometime this century, I suggest you work it out with your fair maiden, because the Kirk-coaster? Is closed.”  
  
  
And with that, Kirk's gone. Not in the usual Kirk predatory stalk, but in a huffy sort of flounce.  
  
  
A few minutes of staring at the forcefield and Hikaru shakes her head. Turns back to the wall. Bows. Settles into her breath.  
  
  
Then resumes spin-kicking her own face, and the unbreakable wall behind it.  
  
  


**Travis: She's So Strange**

  
  
After two weeks, stepping out of the brig is strangely anticlimactic.  
  
  
Hikaru's had few frequent visitors, other than Scotty (who'd brought whisky, and could disrupt the restraining forcefield long enough to sneak her a glassful or five), Kirk, and oddly enough, Riley, who—after the first quietly apologetic visit—would mostly speak in hushed tones about Joe Tormalen, like a man purging himself.  
  
  
(“I'm sorry for your loss,” Hikaru had said near the end of that first visit, as Riley got ready to leave, looking lost and empty. Hikaru'd been watching his distracted, tired face for nearly an hour straight, and had come to understand something she'd somehow overlooked in her own obsession. “I didn't realize--”  
  
  
“Ah,” Riley had waved his hand dismissively, attempting that  _smile_ , the one he was famous for. Hikaru thought it'd be a miracle if they ever saw that smile again. “No one did. They weren't supposed to. You, on the other hand were so obvious, it'd be funny if it wasn't so darned sad.”  
  
  
Hikaru blushed and looked down at her hands. They'd gone past restless to listless.  
  
  
“Christ, you've got it at least as bad as Joe. Look at ya.” Another attempt at the smile, this one more successful. “This girl must be somethin' to tie you two in knots like she does. Did. Whatever.”  
  
  
And at that point, where, had this been a novel or a holo, he'd have told Hikaru to go after Chekova with his blessing, or something trite like that, instead Riley had shrugged. “God, I'm glad I'm queer. Like the poet said: you're having girl problems, and I feel bad for you, son. I got ninety-nine problems, but a bitch ain't one.”  
  
  
“Ah. And which Irish bard was that?” Riley snorted, and Hikaru had tried on a smile of her own. “Kinda makes  _me_  glad I'm queer, too. Oh, hey, I'm sorry about . . . you know . . . your teeth.”  
  
  
Another dismissive wave, even though Riley still looked like a man with severe underbite, and probably would for at least another three days. “Forgiven. You aren't the first. You won't be the last. Luck o' the Irish, and all.”  
  
  
And then, interestingly enough, Nurse Chapel had shown up to remind Riley about his regeneration appointment in Sickbay. Which wasn't for another another hour, as Riley had then pointed out. At which point, Nurse Chapel had gotten unusually flustered, stammered something about just making sure Riley put aside the time. Then he was hurrying out the door: a tall, slim, normally cool blond beautiful enough to turn even Hikaru's head for a moment.  
  
  
Riley and Hikaru had exchanged a look. Then she'd shrugged and grinned. “Hey, I feel bad for you, son. But I got ninety-nine problems and a dick ain't one.”)  
  
  
But the one person Hikaru's wanted to see most hasn't been by, even once.  
  
  
With a weary good bye to the security personnel on duty, Hikaru shuffles toward the door. When it opens, she sees that one person leaning on the wall across the way, arms crossed over her chest, face anxious and wary. Long legs cross at the ankles, like she's been standing there for awhile.  
  
  
 _Kirk and Riley were right. I love you_ , Hikaru would say, but can't quite. Instead, she rolls her shoulders and grins. “Walk me to my quarters?”  
  
  
Chekova nods once, but doesn't smile, letting Hikaru lead the way.  
  
  


*

  
  
Once they reach Hikaru's quarters, Chekova steps in with only a slight hesitation, looking around with big, cataloguing eyes.  
  
  
“There should still be some food in my mini-fridge, help yourself, make yourself at home. I'm in desperate need of a shower.” One foot in the bathroom she shares with Lieutenant Hansen, and one foot out, she looks over her shoulder at a still-cataloguing Chekova. “You'll be here when I get out, right?”  
  
  
Chekova's eyes tick to her own, and she stares for a long time before nodding solemnly. “I will.”  
  
  
“Good.”  
  
  
Still, Hikaru takes the fastest sonic shower on record, brushes her teeth at one quarter light-speed, throws on her bathrobe and emerges to find Chekova in almost exactly the same spot, looking at Hikaru's bed like it's made of venomous snakes and poison ivy.  
  
  
“So, this is you making yourself at home?”  
  
  
“I was not certain--”  
  
  
“Hey, you can sit--or, uh stand wherever you like,” Hikaru says, clearing her throat and attempting a nonchalant stroll to her bed. She sits down and from this vantage point, Chekova's a long, graceful swan of a woman, and Hikaru wants to memorize every bit of her by taste alone. “But I'll be honest . . . I'd really, uh, like you to sit next to me.”  
  
  
Chekova swallows, and closes the brief distance between herself and Hikaru's bed, and sits close enough to touch, but not close enough that they  _are_  touching. On the very edge of the bed, cute, knobby knees kept primly together, hands flat on her skirt.  
  
  
It's up to Hikaru to close this gap, and she does, noting the soft, helpless gasp Chekova makes when their thighs come in contact.  
  
  
They look into each other's eyes for a long time, till Chekova's start to get shiny.  
  
  
“I was afraid to come see you. Afraid that you would not want to see me.”  
  
  
“I always want to see you.”  
  
  
Chekova looks down, blushing deeply. “A-after vhat happened--”  
  
  
Hikaru takes a deep breath and holds that solemn blue gaze. “I think I'm in love with you. You're the smartest, funnest, sweetest, most beautiful—holy God,  _sexiest_  woman I've ever known, and ever will know. I'm pretty sure it's premature and irresponsible to says this, but even if there were a better woman out there, I wouldn't want her, because . . . I want  _you_. No one else. You're the woman for me, and if I haven't fucked things between us up too badly, I think that maybe . . . I could be the woman for you. I'd sure like to try, anyway.”  
  
  
Chekova's eyes widen, but her brow furrows. “You . . . love me, too? But the wirus—”  
  
  
“If not for that virus I'd have gone on lying to myself about how badly I need you.” Hikaru covers Chekova's hand with her own and chews her lip. “Only--I've never felt this way about anyone, let alone someone I saw as a kid, to be protected and--”  
  
  
“I am not a kid,” Chekova says angrily, whipping her hand away and crossing her arms. She glares off at Hikaru's view-screen. “I am old enough to be navigator and man the conn, but not old enough for you to fuck?”  
  
  
“Chekova--”  
  
  
Now that angry gaze is back on Hikaru, pining her, not that she has intentions of going anywhere. Ever. “If, as you claim, you love me, vhy,  _vhy_  vill you not call me Polina . . . as you did in Sickbay?”  
  
  
“--the thing is, I really would like to be your girlfriend--”  
  
  
“--then you cannot call me Chekova anymore. At least not off-duty. Call me Polina.”  
  
  
“ _Polina_ , then--”  
  
  
Polina's arms uncross, and her posture becomes less rigid. The eyes that meet Hikaru's are wary, once again, but hopeful. “But I vould like it better if you called me 'Lina'.”  
  
  
This is said so defensively, Hikaru bites back her chuckle and nods once. “Lina. I'd like to be your girlfriend. And just to keep you informed as to my intentions, if the whole girlfriend-thing goes as well as I know it will, I'd like you to be my wife. You know, someday. If that's okay with you.”  
  
  
“Oh,” Polina says, blinking. Then even more, as tears roll down her face. “Oh, Hikaru!”  
  
  
Then she's throwing long, surprisingly strong arms around Hikaru and hugging her hard and speaking in tear-logged Russian.  
  
  
Hikaru's never really understood women, but she's always understood when to keep her mouth shut, and just be the strong-silent type.  
  
  
When Polina cries herself out, Hikaru lays them both down, shifting a pliant, sniffling Polina onto her side, spooning behind her, one arm acting as pillow, the other as safety-belt. She kisses the riotous frizz of curls tickling her face, and there they lay in silence, but for the sounds of their breathing.  
  
  
“Hikaru?”  
  
  
Half asleep (she could count on two hands the number of hours she slept on the brig palet) Hikaru mumbles: “Hmm?”  
  
  
“I . . . I am three and vone-quarter months pregnant,” Polina whispers tearily, and Hikaru bolts up like she's been shocked and scoots to the foot of the bed.  
  
  
“I knew it. I knew--”  _this was too good to be true,_  she almost says, but doesn't. She also doesn't flinch when Polina starts crying again, though it's a near thing because Polina may not be like her little sister, anymore, but if there's one thing Hikaru refuses to stand for, it's someone hurting the person she cares for most.  
  
  
And Polina is—will always be that person, whether or not Hikaru wants that to be so, and no matter that she's pregnant with Joe Tormalen's baby.  
  
  
 _Fuck, a_ baby! She thinks, with more chagrin than horror. Slipping momentarily into older sister mode, she wants to ask what in hell Polina was thinking, not going on birth control once she started sleeping with Joe. Or why she wasn't on birth control in the first place--  
  
  
 _Because_  I _was the one she wanted to be with, not Joe. She didn't think she'd need it._  
  
  
Which not only quiets the territorial beast hiding just under her skin, but makes her heart, stomach—the very  _core_  of her clench painfully, before releasing.  
  
  
Then she's crawling back up the bed to Polina, who's hiding her face in Hikaru's pillow, sobbing hard enough that she's shaking a little. She looks so alone, and far too young to be anyone's mother. A baby having a baby.  
  
  
 _God, look at her, broken open without me saying a word. She's so defenseless, sometimes. How on Earth is she gonna teach this kid how to defend itself? Who's going to protect them? Who's gonna make sure they're taken care of like they deserve to be? Who's--_  
  
  
“I am,” Hikaru says, brushing Polina's hair behind her ear. When Polina looks over her shoulder, her face is red, and covered in tears. Her pale eyes swim in a sea of garnet and Hikaru's mind is instantly made up. Her heart has found its magnetic north, and its course will never be altered.  
  
  
“Pregnant,” she says with an awkward little laugh. “Damn, I'm good.”  
  
  
Polina snorts rather unladylike, utterly room-brightening laughter that's light years better than any damn tinkling giggle, even as it turns into near-silent weeping.  
  
  
“I love you. I love you and the baby,” Hikaru says, kissing it into Polina's skin and whispering it into her hair. “Please don't cry. I love you.”  
  
  
Polina doesn't resist when Hikaru holds her tighter, but she does stop shaking; even lightens up on the crying. “You cannot love someone you do not know, Hikaru!”  
  
  
It occurs to Hikaru that Polina might mean either the baby, or herself, or both.  
  
  
Well, maybe that's true, maybe it's not; that someone can't love a person they don't know. But Hikaru reckons that Polina doesn't know the child she's carrying. And she also has no doubt Polina loves said child  _fiercely_. Granted the processing's going to be a while--all the physical, mental and emotional effects of this pregnancy. Going to be a while for  _both_  of them to truly process. But in the mean time, they love each other, And with the same utter calm and zen she feels before missions, Hikaru  _knows_  that Polina is it for her, and even a year of miscommunications and relationships with other people couldn't change that. They're committed to each other; to this baby, which is no small committment.  
  
  
So for now, Hikaru holds Polina even tighter and burrows through all that hair till she can kiss the soft, downy back of her neck. Doesn't miss the way Polina automatically fits her long body into Hikaru's, managing to seem somehow smaller, even though she's not. “The baby's a part of you, and I love you, Polina.”  
  
  
Polina makes a rude, but half-hearted noise. “You cannot tell me this—me, pregnant with a dead man's child—was what you wanted, Hikaru,” she says bitterly.  
  
  
“I wanted  _you_. I got you. Everything else is icing on the cake.” And here's something worth remembering: Polina shivers  _hard_  when the nape of her neck is nuzzled. “Hey, wanna name the baby 'Icing'?”  
  
  
When the snorts and sobs have trickled off, Polina whaps Hikaru on the arm, then leaves her hand there, stroking and petting. “If the baby is a girl, I would name her Margarete after my mother.”  
  
  
Hikaru's rubs her hand over Polina's stomach in slow circles, imagining the small, barely-formed person inhabiting it. All she can picture is a smiling, pink-cheeked little face with a big, bright smile and curls tumbling down to obscure pale blue eyes. Trusting, open, unguarded eyes like Polina's.  
  
  
 _I'll have to teach her or him street-smarts. And how to fence and fight; how to meditate and be mindful,_  she thinks, bemused and still gobsmacked at the idea of—assuming it's what Polina wants--maybe being a co-parent to this child. She suspects she'll be in such a state until this kid graduates from Starfleet. “And if the baby's a boy?”  
  
  
Polina is silent for such a long,  _long_  time, Hikaru's suddenly sorry she asked and can't imagine raising her rival's child, if said child's name recalls everything Hikaru would otherwise put behind her. At least, she can't imagine it for a moment.  
  
  
Then, the curly hair on the child in her imagination darkens and straightens, till the curls are more of a wave. The eyes darken to a warm hazel, and the pink of those chubby cheeks is almost lost in a more olive skin tone.  
  
  
But that smile . . . that smile is still the same.  
  
  
“If the baby is a boy, then Maksimillian, after my grandfather,” Polina says quietly, and Hikaru knows that wasn't what she'd initially chosen as a boy's name.  
  
  
Firmly putting away the thought that even dead, Joe Tormalen still has Polina in a way Hikaru never will, she exercises that hallmark of the Sulu lineage: graciousness, even to ones's rivals. It's a trait Hikaru's occasionally found it difficult to embody, but now. . . .  
  
  
It's just as difficult, but the stakes, the gains are so much higher than they've ever been.  
  
  
“Hmm . . . what about Maksimillian Josef? In honor of Joe?”  
  
  
“Oh, I . . . oh, yes. But that would not . . . bother you?” Polina's voice is quiet, breathy and hopeful.  
  
  
“It'll take some getting used to, but I expect I will.” Hikaru lets it lie there, for now. “Can you stay, for awhile?”  
  
  
“Till you fall asleep?”  
  
  
Hikaru barks a quiet laugh. Irony's a bitch. “For as long as you want?”  
  
  
“The Keptin let me switch shifts with Lieutenant Riley. I have the next sixteen hours.”  
  
  
“Good.” Hikaru shifts them both till their just right, then drops into the first decent sleep she's had in two weeks, holding onto her family the whole while.  
  
  


**Soundgarden: Burden In My Hand**

  
  
Their quarters are completely dark, and Lina's breathing is soft and even.  
  
  
 _There'll never be a better time than right now,_  Hikaru thinks, easing down the bed, till her face is level with Lina's small, but noticeably rounded stomach. At six and a half months, she's very suddenly started to  _show_. She no longer goes on away missions and maintenance has had to adjust the ergonomics of her chair and the safety-belt.  
  
  
She settles her hand on top of and presses her lips gently to the side of Lina's cotton-covered baby-bulge. She has never and will never love two people more than she loves the two in her bed and under her care.  
  
  
“So. I figure it's about time we got some things straight, just you and me, 'kay?” she murmurs, very softly, so as not to wake Lina, who doesn't get much sleep with the way baby Chekova kicks most nights. “I'm not here to steal your mom from you. We both have places in her life, and neither of us could hope to replace the other.  
  
  
“I'm not here to replace your dad, either. He was a good man, though I was blind to that when he was alive. He loved your mom very much, and would've done anything to protect her. And you, if he'd known. . . .  
  
  
“I do know that he and I have that in common. I would do anything to protect your mom, and you. And I love you, and I hope that you'll love me, too.”  
  
  
Lina stirs a little, and lets out a soft sigh. When her breathing evens out again, Hikaru goes on a bit more quietly.  
  
  
“I'll try my best to give you a good life, even if some of it is spent shipboard. And when we get back to Earth, your mom and I have jobs teaching at the Academy waiting for us, and you'll have a ton of other Starfleet brats to play with. . . .  
  
  
“But I promise that I'll always make time for you, and teach you all the things a dad should, like how to talk to girls—or boys. How to build model starships. How to render most humanoids unconscious with a single blow. And grandpa Sulu's probably already bought you baby fencing gear. Grandma Tormalen's definitely gonna try turn you into an artist and Grandpa Chekov's already telling everyone you'll be a grandmaster at chess before you're twenty—not to mention your Aunt Aiko's already trying to get your mom and I to sign you up for tap lessons once we're back on Earth--”  
  
  
“Ai, Hikaru. No. Tap lessons. End of discussion.”  
  
  
“Knew you were playing possum.” Hikaru grins, and kisses Lina's stomach softly. A sleep-heavy hand settles in her hair, playing with the newly-shortened locks.  
  
  
“Vhy you cut your hair, I cannot understand. Vas so nice long,” Lina yawns, only slightly more awake than she is asleep. Hikaru eases up the bed till she can kiss Lina's lips. She tastes like toothpaste and sleep. Like home.  
  
  
“Still long enough for you to tug on, and tell me just. Where. You. Want me.” Hikaru punctuates each word with a kiss. Under her hand the baby kicks once, like a flutter of fairies, then settles, probably only half-awake, too. “My hair grows ungodly fast, though. If I don't cut it, in four months it'll be back the way it was.”  
  
  
“Lights at tventy percent.” They both squint as the light level slowly rises. Lina smiles and caresses Hikaru's face, then brushes back two-inch long locks that spike and bristle unless gelled down, and taper to a buzz-cut well before Hikaru's nape. “Hmm. Is cute like this.”  
  
  
“Cute?” Hikaru makes a face, and Lina laughs, propping herself up on her elbows. She looks amused, tired, and content—fairly glowing. She's the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. In  _all_ the wide worlds.  
  
  
“Yes, cute.” She Eskimo-kisses Hikaru. “Like a sleepy hedgehog.”  
  
  
“Well, gee, thanks.”  
  
  
“Like  _my_  sleepy hedgehog,” Lina corrects herself and follows up with a non-Eskimo-kiss.  
  
  
“Huh, I guess that's okay, then,” Hikaru grumbles, then lays back down, pulling Lina into her arms for spooning. As always, Hikaru's hand gravitates equally toward breast or stomach. After a few seconds, her hand settles on Lina's stomach again. The baby's kicking, but sluggishly. Token-kicking. “Guess I'm not the only sleepy hedgehog. The baby's quiet, tonight.”  
  
  
“Mm.” Then giggles as Hikaru nibbles on her earlobe. “Chris told me the sex of the baby today.”  
  
  
Which would explain that smug, secretive, adorable smile Lina'd been wearing all evening.  
  
  
“You cheat! I thought you wanted to be surprised!”  
  
  
“I do,  _milaya_ , but I cannot wait another two and a half more months. Is completely unacceptable.” Lina's pout is audible. And adorable. Even if Hikaru were angry, she certainly wouldn't be able to stay that way. Not with Lina warm and sleepy in her arms.  
  
  
“Completely.” Hikaru kisses Lina's shoulder blade. Wonders if she wants to be surprised. If anyone can keep a secret, it's Lina, but. . . . “Well? Don't leave me hanging--are we having a Maksimillian Josef or a Margarete Raisa?”  
  
  
Lina's hand covers her own and presses it to her stomach firmly. There's another flurry of light kicks in response. “Hikaru, meet Maksim, your son. Maksim, meet Hikaru, your other mother.”  
  
  
For a long time, all Hikaru can do is lay there, and hold Lina. Hold this baby— _her son_  and simply be in love. Irrevocably, eternally in love with them both.  
  
  
“My son.  _Our_  son,” Hikaru murmurs on Lina's shoulder, closing her eyes. Tears get out, anyway. Pretty stupid of her eyes to shed moisture when she's actually happy. Happier than she's ever been.  
  
  
“Yes, our son. Our little Maksim, the Hedgehog.” Lina says calmly and yawns. “And already he is a handful. I found another grey hair this morning.”  
  
  
Hikaru snorts and snickers. That's the second of two things she never, ever does, done within two minutes of each other. “Since the Narada, we've all got grey, even Spock.”  
  
  
“Hmm.” There was a time just mentioning the Narada would send Lina into a brooding funk for days. Now . . . not so much. Hikaru likes to think it's because she's happier, now; and not alone. She's got a fiancee who loves her, and soon she'll have little Maksim, whom they'll both lavish love on, and--  
  
  
\--and the other penny finally drops. Hikaru is done processing and the sudden understanding is made of a ton of bricks that shoot fireworks and rainbows. “Oh, fuck, we're gonna have a Maksim. A Maksim Josef Andrei Chekov! He's a  _whole 'nother person_  that you made and we're gonna raise! ”  
  
  
“Yes,  _dorogaia moya_ , we are.” Lina squeezes Hikaru's hand.  
  
  
“Goddamn . . . goddamn, but what if--” Hikaru clears her throat. Her voice sounds weak and indistinct for no reason she can figure, and she rubs possessive circles on Lina's stomach. Hopefully it'll soothe Maksim and his mother back to sleep. They both need their rest. “What if he  _really, really_  wants tap lessons someday, baby?  
  
  
“Oh . . . well, then.” Lina chuckles, and murmurs something in Russian that sounds affectionate. “If he really wants them, he will have them. For as long as he wants.”  
  
  
“Yeah. Okay.” Hikaru hugs Lina and their baby closer, relieved. Because agreeing on afterschool activities, well . . . that's gotta be half Maksim's future squared away, right there—easy, like Sunday morning, right?  
  
  
She and Lina've got this parenting thing  _so_  covered.


End file.
